The playbook, p.1
The Playbook, page 1
The Playbook
Copyright 2024 Gary E. Parker. All rights reserved.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are not real. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Cover Design: Christine.vanbree@gmail.com
Interior Design: TracyCopesCreative.com
Title Info:
978-1-61088-664-2 HC
978-1-61088-665-9 PB
978-1-61088-666-6 Ebook
978-1-61088-667-3 PDF-Ebook
978-1-61088-668-0 Audiobook
Published by Bancroft Press
“Books that Enlighten”
(818) 275-3061
4527 Glenwood Avenue
La Crescenta, CA 91214
www.bancroftpress.com
Printed in the United States of America
As a former athlete in Greenwood, South Carolina
(years ago), I played for some amazing coaches
and want to dedicate this story to their memory
and to the thousands of other men and women
who serve as mentors, leaders, and coaches
for young people across America.
Coach Roper, Coach Yonce, Coach Riddle, and Coach Babb
were men of character, discipline and sportsmanship and
I’m grateful for what they meant to me and others like me.
Approximately 1,088,000 high school students play the game of football each week. Of these, about 2,400 are female.
Occasionally, one of these young women loves the game so much she carves out a career in the male-dominated arena. The story you’re about to read isn’t true.
But some day, it may be.
CHAPTER ONE
Her stomach flipping like pancakes in a diner, Chelsea Deal crouches on the sidelines of a packed, brightly lit stadium and rolls a football in her slender, well-manicured fingers. Glancing quickly at the scoreboard through cobalt blue eyes, she struggles to stay calm. It’s just high school football, she reminds herself as she stands. Though you wear the purple jacket of a Rabon Knights’ coach and your team wobbles within seconds of its first loss in two years, this is nothing compared to…
She pushes away the memory of another night on a football field and chews off what remains of her lipstick as she edges closer to Dub Klein, the Knights’ head coach standing beside her. A mid-fifties gentleman with skin the color of charcoal, Dub wears a gray suit, purple tie, and snappy dress hat.
“Zebra, fifty-four, Y Go!” shouts Dub, his hands busy signaling to his offense. “Go! Go! Go!”
Completely focused again, Chelsea keys on Ty Rogers, the Knights’ quarterback, as he rushes the purple-clad offense to the line of scrimmage. The clock continues to tick as Ty, a six-feet tall, seventeen-year-old African American with a thick chest and strong legs, barks the signals. The Dragons’ defense, dressed in red, shifts left as the center snaps the ball to Ty. He drops back to pass but the defense sticks to his receivers like lint on Velcro and no one breaks open. Ty scrambles toward the Knights’ sideline but, not fast enough to outrun the defense, he’s caught by a tackler, who yanks him to the ground. The Dragons celebrate, jumping up and down, chest-bumping.
Chelsea and Dub run ten yards onto the field and yell simultaneously at the referee, “Time Out! Time Out!” The referee waves his arms and the clock stops. Chelsea glances at the scoreboard again as Dub frantically waves the team over to him. KNIGHTS: 27. DRAGONS: 31. Eight seconds left.
The players and coaches hustle toward Dub, their breath puffing gray plumes in the cold. Chelsea scans the stadium as everyone gathers. The smoky aroma of Southern barbecue drifts through the air. The roar of the crowd, bundled up to protect against the cold October night, echoes off the nearby Smoky Mountains. An elderly woman in a seat close to the sideline bows her head, her hands positioned in prayer.
The players surround Dub, and he pulls Ty close as the crowd noise drops. Still holding the football, Chelsea bends to listen. Dub speaks softly but firmly, his accent southern but with distinctly clear diction. “I love you, Ty,” Dub says. “But I’ve told you a thousand times. Never try to run. You’re too slow.”
Ty pants heavily. “I thought I saw a lane, Coach.”
“I’m talking a turtle in wet cement slow,” replies Dub. “You’re the starter because you’re smart. If I want a fast quarterback, I’ll put Palmer in.”
Dub and Chelsea glance at Palmer Norman, a lanky blonde standing on the fringe of the huddle. A younger kid, he’s taken his helmet off and his head is down.
Ty shakes his head. “Palmer won’t know the plays, Coach.”
“I’m just making a point, Ty,” says Dub.
“What’s the play?” Ty asks.
Dub resets his hat and turns to Chelsea. “Call the play, Coach,” he says to her.
Chelsea looks at him like he’s ordered her to jump from a plane without a parachute. “You’ve never let me call a play in a game,” she says.
“It’s the ninth game, Coach,” counters Dub. “You’re my Offensive Coordinator. Time you earned your paycheck.”
Her mind a jumble, Chelsea quickly hands Dub the football, jerks a play sheet from her back pocket, and stares hard at it.
“Forget the analytics, Chelsea,” says Dub, leaning closer. “Just do something they won’t expect.”
“Call it, Coach,” Ty encourages her. “I’ll make it work.”
Pushing down her nerves, Chelsea brushes her blonde hair from her eyes and studies the play sheet again.
“Make a decision and live with it!” Dub says.
Chelsea runs a finger over a play on her sheet but she’s uncertain whether to call it. She’s imagined a moment like this for a long time, but her mind feels stuck, the gears glued in place.
“Chelsea!” whispers Dub. “Time’s up!”
Chelsea swallows, steps to Ty, and whispers in his ear. A referee blows his whistle for play to resume.
“I like it.” Ty grins at Chelsea.
“Make me look good,” she says, hoping he’s more confident in the play than she is.
Ty snaps his chinstrap and leads the offense back to the middle of the field as Chelsea returns to the sideline with Dub on one side and Buck Jones, a lean, ramrod straight, mid-forties coach dressed fully in purple, on the other.
“You let her call the play?” Buck asks Dub, talking across Chelsea as if she’s not there, his voice thick with disapproval.
“Not now, Buck,” Dub says sternly.
“Just surprised is all.”
Dub grunts and Buck peels away as the teams on the field approach the line of scrimmage.
“Ignore him,” Dub tells Chelsea as they face the field again.
“Copy that,” says Chelsea.
Dub chuckles and hands the football back to her as Ty lines up in a shotgun formation and Swoops, a lean wide receiver with dredlocks dangling below his helmet, positions himself near the left sideline. The field announcer booms: “LAST PLAY OF THE GAME! SWORDS OUT, KNIGHTS!” Thousands of fans hold up plastic silver swords and wave them in the air.
“What play did you call?” Dub asks Chelsea, his eyes lasered on the offense.
Chelsea stares straight ahead. “I’m too scared to tell you.”
“That’s not comforting.”
The center snaps the ball to Ty and he sprints left like he’s going to run. His offensive line bangs against defenders rushing at him. From the left sideline, Swoops sprints toward Ty.
Spotting Swoops, coaches on the Dragons’ sideline start screaming, “REVERSE! REVERSE!”
A defender smacks into Ty’s left knee but he pitches the ball to Swoops just before he hits the ground.
“Swoops!” Chelsea shouts as he grabs the pitch out of the air and jets toward her on the right sideline. She’s caught the Dragons off guard and she knows it! Swoops dodges one defender, stiff arms another, and turns the corner right in front of Chelsea.
“Swoops!” Chelsea raises her football into the air as Swoops sprints away from her, his long legs eating up the grass. Defenders chase him but they’re too late and Swoops outruns them into the endzone for the winning touchdown.
As the Knights’ crowd erupts in celebration, Chelsea spikes the football and rushes the field with Dub and her players. Wristbands, sweaty towels, hats, and even a couple of purple shoes fly into the air.
“I never would’ve called that play!” Dub shouts at Chelsea over the noise of the celebration.
Chelsea laughs and shouts back. “Expect the unexpected, Coach!”
Dub doffs his hat and bends at the waist, formally bowing to her. She laughs again and they slap palms in a high-five as the team continues to rejoice.
Close to an hour later, the stadium is mostly empty, but the players’ parents, girlfriends, and scores of buddies still hang outside the Knights’ locker room, waiting for the players to shower and change. Gradually, the combatants emerge. A couple of coaches drift out among the players, their faces beaming as they wave to the fans, pile into their cars, and drive through the exit gate.
A couple minutes later, Ty limps out of the locker room beside Sean Johnson, the second-string quarterback, a skinny guy with curly red hair and arms that reach the tops of his knees. A handful of fans quickly surround them, offering congratulations and slaps on the back. Ty and Sean fist-bump some fans, high-five others.
Slowly making his way past the group, Ty spots his mom and dad, Vanessa and Russell, waiting by his dad’s glistening black Aston Martin. Both former athletes , his dad sports a Super Bowl ring, and his mom wears a pair of diamond earrings big enough to choke a snake.
“Later, Dude,” Ty says to Sean.
“Tomorrow,” says Sean.
Ty limps to Russell and Vanessa as Sean hurries away. Vanessa hugs Ty.
“Close game,” says Russell.
“We had it all the way,” chuckles Ty.
“You’re limping,” says Vanessa, “Your knee bothering you again?”
“It’s not too bad,” says Ty.
“We’re not debating it anymore,” says Russell. “You’re seeing a doctor on Monday.”
“I don’t need a doctor,” argues Ty, climbing into the back of the Aston Martin.
“Monday, Ty,” insists Vanessa. “No more argument.”
His face lit with a toothy smile, Coach Dub exits the locker room a few seconds later and the remaining fans start clapping and patting him on the back.
“Thanks,” he says over and over as he works his way through the crowd. “Appreciate your support. The players deserve the credit.”
After several minutes, he finishes the last handshake and reaches his designated parking spot. where his wife Patrice, a handsome, busty woman with bright eyes and a welcoming face, greets him with a hug.
“Shall we go out or head home?” Dub asks hopefully, reaching for her hand.
Patrice steps back, her hand in his. “You know the drill, Coach,” she says. “Victory party with the Booster Club before we go home. You need to see and be seen after a game.”
“I’ll make it worth your while if we drive straight home,” Dub offers with a cheeky grin.
“You’re a devil in a fancy suit,” laughs Patrice. “But, in the interest of your job security, I’ll resist your temptations.”
Dub shakes his head as he opens the passenger door of his silver SUV and ushers Patrice in. “All right,” he laments. “But I remember a day when you would’ve jumped at an offer like that.”
He closes her door, circles to the driver’s side, and joins Patrice in the car. “I let Chelsea call that last play,” he says proudly as he fastens his seatbelt.
“Look at you,” grins Patrice. “Trusting a woman with the game on the line.”
Dub chuckles and starts the car. “I’m a credit to my gender.”
An empty, boiled peanuts bag blows across the parking lot as Palmer Norman, dressed in scuffed black boots, a faded denim jacket, and blue jeans, walks unnoticed by the remaining crowd to an old but clean motorcycle parked behind the locker room. Strapping on a battered brown backpack, he quickly straddles the bike and kicks the pedal. The bike doesn’t start.
A couple of tall, heavy-set teenage brothers, Don and Strick, amble up and stop as Palmer kicks the starter again. Both guys wear baggy jeans low on their hips, high-top sneakers, and a Knights’ football jersey and hat. Dark hair pokes out from Don’s cap and reddish curls escape from Strick’s. Cigarettes dangle from their mouths.
Strick laughs as Palmer tries to start his motorcycle a third time. “What’s up, Hillbilly?” he asks.
Palmer glances at Strick. “That ain’t my name,” he says, his accent Southern, country, and unpolished.
“You like Rube better?” mocks Strick. “Hick? Cracker? I got a million choices for you.”
Ignoring Strick, Palmer hops off the motorcycle and examines the engine, his fingers busy as he checks it over.
Don steps closer. “I personally like Yokel best. That good by you?”
Palmer looks up. “You no better than me,” he mumbles.
“Your bike is roadkill,” offers Strick.
“We headed to toke up,” says Don, as if offering a truce. “Want to join?”
Palmer climbs onto his bike again and kicks the starter, but it still won’t start. “I got work in the morning,” he says to Don. “Give me a ride home?”
Strick grunts. “We look like Uber to you? Call somebody.”
“I got nobody to call.” Palmer hops off and reexamines the engine.
A posse of girls walk up and Bridget, a leggy, green-eyed blonde dressed in a chic leather jacket and stylish black slacks and boots, steps to the motorcycle, slowly straddling the front wheel and gripping the handlebars. “You’re new at school the year, aren’t you?” she coos as she leans towards Palmer.
Palmer’s eyes widen as he glances at Bridget. Though she’s in his math class, he’s shocked that she’s noticed him. “I moved in right before school started,” he answers quickly. “Live with my uncle.”
“What about your parents?” asks Bridget, leaning in so close he can smell her perfume.
Palmer eyes Bridget, wondering what her game is. Girls like her don’t talk to guys like him.
“You making some new friends?” she asks.
Palmer feels all eyes on him—the girls with Bridget, plus Don and Strick. He stares at Bridget, her elegance pouring off like heat from a July sidewalk. He stands slowly and eases Bridget’s soft, manicured hands off the handlebars.
Don steps towards Bridget. “Leave him be, Princess,” he says. “Yokel is way below your social register.”
Bridget smiles at Palmer as he lets her hands go. “You get your bike fixed, you let me know,” she says. “We’ll take us a ride.” She tosses her hair and leads the girls off, Don and Strick trailing behind.
Relieved to be alone again, Palmer quickly tries his bike one last time. It still won’t start. Drops of rain suddenly patter down and Palmer hurriedly dismounts, pushes the bike behind the locker room, and jogs past the exit gate and onto a dark road.
Her phone to her ear, Chelsea hops into her black pickup, flips on the windshield wipers, and exits the parking lot. The wipers thump rhythmically, working hard against the splashing rain as she turns left onto the road. A coach’s whistle hangs on the rear-view mirror and a notebook titled “Player Profiles” rests beside her in the leather seat. Still smiling from the game, she chats on the phone, her voice excited.
“You won’t believe what happened tonight, Bo!” she chortles as she adjusts the heat.
“I can’t believe you’re still coaching football,” grunts Bo.
“Dub let me call the last play!” she says, happily ignoring his dig. “And it worked! We won!”
“It’s just, you know, you’re a lawyer, Chelsea.”
“Was a lawyer,” she corrects him.
Silence falls for a second, then Bo changes the subject. “I finally got your diploma fixed,” he says, a little sheepishly.
Chelsea chuckles. “Well, you are the one who broke it.”
“I already apologized, multiple times.”
“I appreciate that.” She stops at a red light. “You still driving up Sunday?”
“You promise you won’t wear khakis?”
“You make spaghetti for me and I’ll wear a dress. Plus some earrings I just made.”
“I actually get to see your legs?”
“From stem to stern.”
“My world-famous spaghetti it is.”
“It’s world famous now?” she teases him.
“Well, it should be.”
“I can’t wait.” The light changes and Chelsea drives off, her face still aglow from calling the game’s winning play.
A circular driveway and manicured lawn frame a large contemporary home. Giant square windows, a flat roof at three distinct levels, lots of steel, and a brick façade. A four-car garage sits on the left side and a giant swimming pool and recreational area, including a basketball court, a putting green, and a volleyball court, stretch out beyond the right.
Inside the house, Ty limps into his second-floor bedroom, drops his gym bag by a king-sized bed, and flops down. Trophies and awards—academic and athletic—fill every nook of the room. Two computer screens sit on a desk, and pictures of Ty and his parents decorate the walls. The three of them at the Eifel Tower, the Lincoln Memorial, in Yankee Stadium. The biggest picture—Ty shaking President Obama’s hand——hangs over the desk, and framed posters of Desmond Tutu and Martin Luther King, Jr., border it.
Ty pulls his phone from a pocket as Vanessa enters and plops down beside him.
“Let me see your knee,” she demands.
“It’s nothing, Mom,” he grunts, still eyeing his phone. “A little pain, that’s all.”
“We need to make sure there’s no structural problem,” she says firmly. “You have a lot of football ahead of you.”
